A Doctors' Dozen
by Argonaut57
Summary: Twelve occasions when one immortal doctor met THE immortal Doctor.


**A Doctors' Dozen**

 _Bedloes' Island, New York, 1814_

Henry Morgan remembered the flash and roar of the pistol, the stink of burned powder and the pain as the bullet tore through his chest. None of which had anything to do with the icy waters that now surrounded him. He shot upward as if pushed and broke the surface, drawing in a deep breath. He had time to realise that he was stark naked, and that he was in some kind of current, before a wave lifted him and threw him down into unconsciousness.

"Grandfather!"

Henry could still hear the waves, but he was no longer actually in the water. He was freezing cold, lying face down on something gritty, and still not fully in control of himself. _Of course not,_ he thought, _I'm dead._

"Grandfather!" It was a young girls' voice, with an English accent. "Grandfather, there's a man here!"

"A man?" This was a male voice, elderly and rather irritable. "What sort of man, child?"

"One without any clothes on!" She was trying to sound scandalised, but it came out slightly gleeful. It occurred to Henry that he ought to do something, he stirred and moaned.

"Oh, Grandfather, he's alive!" The girl exclaimed. "We must do something, it's so awfully cold, and he's wet!"

"Yes, yes, of course!" The man replied. "Now do stop staring, Susan, and go and fetch a blanket from the ship, hm?"

"Of course, Grandfather."

Henry finally managed to lift his head, to see a man making his way down a rocky slope toward him. The man was dressed oddly, in a frock coat and checked trousers, with a fur hat and a cloak over all. He was obviously old, with long white hair and a sharp-featured face, but tackled the stiff slope with a sprightly agility that belied his years.

"Ah!" He said, reaching Henrys' side. "I see you've rejoined us, young man. Can you stand?"

"I think so." Henry replied. With the help of the older man, who was stronger than he looked, he managed to clamber to his feet, though by now he was shivering violently.

"Hardly the weather for swimming, hm?" His rescuer noted. "But no time to talk, now. Ah, Susan. You have the blanket?"

"Yes, Grandfather, I'll bring it down." The girl looked about twelve or thirteen, Henry judged, slim, dark and potentially very pretty.

"Nonsense, child!" The old man snapped. "Throw it down to me and go back to the ship. Make some hot soup. You may indulge your curiosity about the male form in a few more years, hm?"

The girl pouted a little, but threw the blanket down and went off.

"Now then, young man!" The old man began to drape the blanket around Henry toga-fashion. "What is your name and why were you in the sea?"

"Th-that's a long story." Henry managed. "My name is Henry Morgan – Dr Henry Morgan."

"How do you do." The old man answered. "I am also a doctor, _the_ Doctor, you might say. Now, come along, and we'll get you dried out and warmed up, hm?"

 _Wapping Old Stairs, London, 1888_

Being 'reborn' in the Thames, Henry reflected, could be a death sentence in itself, these days. The River (the Thames was, and always would be, _the_ River to many) was aswarm with traffic all day and night, and it was more than likely that one of the larger vessels would swamp or run over an incautious swimmer. At least Mr Bazalgettes' remarkable new sewage system meant that one was unlikely to die of actually being in the water!

He guessed he was somewhere near Wapping, as the River was at reasonably low tide and the mudflats were visible. Littered as the area was with flotsam and jetsam, Henry had managed to secure a pair of trousers. Ragged, unclean, soaking wet and rather too large, they nevertheless preserved his essential modesty.

The flight of ancient stone steps was a welcome sight. Less welcome was the slender, female figure standing halfway down them. She came a little way toward him, then her piquant, pretty face lit with a smile and she called over her shoulder:

"Doctor! He's here! You were right."

A male voice responded from a distance. "Of course I was right. I'm always right. Well, nearly always."

The girl giggled, then beckoned Henry toward her whilst trotting lightly down the steps to meet him.

"I'm Jenny." She told him. "Here, I've got a cloak for you. Oooh! He told us you had a scar, but not that it was such a nasty one!"

It was obvious to Henry that he had been expected, so he studied the girl carefully as he slung the cloak she proffered over his shoulders. Her accent was Cockney – as indeed was her perky, confident attitude – but she was dressed in a manner becoming a servant girl in a respectable upper-middle-class household. Then a man approached.

"Ah, Dr Morgan, Henry, it is you!" A tall, gangly fellow dressed in a frock coat and dark trousers, wearing a top hat. Underneath the hat, the face had a broad forehead and a long jaw, the eyes were bright and piercing, the wide mouth stretched in a huge grin.

"And you would be?" Henry asked.

"I'm the Doctor, of course." The grin got even wider. "Don't you remember me?"

Henry frowned. "I once met someone who called himself 'the Doctor'. But that was over seventy years ago, and he was, he looked..."

"A lot older than me?" The Doctor shrugged. "Appearances can be deceiving, I was actually a lot younger then. We all deal with death in different ways, Henry. You go skinny-dipping, I change into someone else!

"Jenny, go and find your mistress, and tell Strax to bring the coach round. We need to get Dr Morgan home."

Jenny grinned, patted Henry on the shoulder, and trotted off. The Doctor studied Henry for a moment.

"You don't age, either." He noted. "Not physically, anyway. But you are older, I can tell by your eyes. Look, I don't normally allow spoilers, but when you meet me at your family home in the 1970s, just mention that I ought to be here, now, will you? Otherwise I won't know to look for you!"

 _The Palace Theatre of Varieties, London, 1895_

Li H'sen Chang was certainly one of the more impressive prestidigitators Henry Morgan had seen. Quite generally, in the music halls, such acts were merely 'fillers', padding out programmes dominated by stand-up comedians and female singers. But Li H'sens' illusions were not only in and of themselves impressive, but in some cases quite inexplicable. That alone had led to his being placed 'top of the bill' and guaranteed him an extended run. However, this had not led to him becoming complacent, and each performance yielded something new and more spectacular or mystifying.

The nights' performance over, Henry rose to leave, then stopped a moment. It was the woman who caught his eye. She was tall and stately, well but not showily dressed – worth a second glance for her strong, handsome features and glossy raven hair alone. But what fascinated Henry was the way she moved. Not the delicate steps of a lady, unused to going anywhere without a mans' arm to lean on, but a long, rangy, purposeful stride, like a woodsman or a hunter. Not did she keep her eyes modestly downcast or fixed ahead. She looked around her with a frankly curious, measuring gaze that had more of the soldier than the lady about it.

Then a mans' voice called her, a rich tenor. "Come along, Leela!"

Henry glanced around, interested to know what kind of man would take on so clearly formidable a creature. Tall, very tall, almost six-and-a-half feet, if Henry was any judge, wearing an ulster and a deerstalker cap over a mass of brown, curly hair. Then he caught Henrys' eye, and there was a flash of mutual recognition. Oh, the face was different – protuberant blue eyes, a beak of a nose and a wide, mobile mouth, but Henry would know the expression in the eyes anywhere, now.

The Doctor winked at Henry, put a long finger to his lips, then he and his companion were gone.

 _No Mans' Land, the Western Front, 1917_

A stagnant, stinking, flooded shell-hole is still water. Henry erupted out of it to blessed silence. The bombardment had stopped, for now, and had not been followed by an infantry charge. His main problem was that the sides of the shell-hole were steep, undoubtedly slippery, and lined with a heterogeneous mess of wreckage, shrapnel and barbed wire. With a sigh, he began to climb out.

He had cleared the water, and was attempting to find a safe route to climb further, when he heard voices.

"Jamie!" Someone shouted. "We have to get back! This place isn't safe."

The reply was in a distinct Scots accent. "Just a minute, Doctor. I'm sure I heard something."

"Over here!" Henry shouted. "I need some help!"

Seconds later, a young man, blockily-built, dark-haired and wearing a kilt, appeared at the edge of the hole.

"Over here!" He called to somebody Henry couldn't see. "I told ye I heard someone!" He looked down at Henry. "Och, what happened to ye, man? Ye've no' a stitch on!"

At that, another man came into view. Not tall, wearing a black frock coat and trousers with a distressingly loud check. He looked down at Henry, a thick mop of dark hair above a puckish, kindly face.

"Bless my soul!" He said. "Dr Morgan?"

Henry, who was not abnormally slow on the uptake, hazarded, "Doctor?"

"Yes, yes, of course!" The Doctor replied. "It's been a long time since Bedloes Island."

Henry was about to mention London, when something at the back of his mind told him not to. Instead, he said. "I could do with a hand..?"

"Oh, my giddy aunt!" The Doctor exclaimed. "What am I thinking? Jamie, go back to the TARDIS and bring a rope and some clothes for Dr Morgan. Ask Victoria to make some tea, as well."

 _Central Park, New York City, 1930_

Henry Morgan glanced up at the towering building. The Empire State building, though not yet complete, was already dominating the skyline of the city. Henry, like a lot of people, was in two minds about the project. Sometimes it struck him as a defiant symbol of the American spirit, reaching for the skies out of the midst of disaster. But in his darker moods, as now, he saw it as a ostentatious waste of money that could be used to help the millions in desperate need.

People like the ones here, in this shanty-town – a "Hooverville", they called it – in Central Park. Poor, decent people by and large, who had lost everything. They came here, to these wooded spaces where nobody charged rent. They built tents and shacks out of what they could find, and day after day, went into the city. Too proud to beg, most of them too honest to steal, they did their best. Taking a days' work where they could, for a few cents – not that employers were necessarily ungenerous, but they too had little to spare. Searching among the refuse for firewood, scrap metal they could sell, anything they could use. Hunting the stockyards for the discarded parts of the animal more prosperous customers would never think of eating – it was a grim joke to Henry that a pigs' head, once the centre-piece of the English Christmas feast, was now a prize to be shared among the poor. Some hung around the markets and stores, hoping for stale bread and half-rotted fruit and vegetables to be discarded at the end of the day – and some of the owners, aware that their own livelihoods were not so secure, sometimes threw out things that could have been kept another day. Some even spent their days fishing off the docks, with unexpected success at times. Some of the younger, stronger men even tried their hands at prize-fighting, with mixed results.

Henrys' long life had taught him how to keep his money safe. His reputation as a doctor kept paying patients coming to his door, as well. So he had enough to indulge himself by coming here twice a week to treat such illnesses and injuries as he could, free of charge. He was just completing the stitching up of a nasty gash in a young mans' forearm. The fellow, whose name was Jim, was excitedly telling Henry how he had got the wound while doing a job for which he had been promised seventy-five cents. When his employer had seen the injury, and noticed that Jim had carried on working despite it, he had paid the lad a whole extra dollar – a magnificent sum which, carefully-used, would feed Jim and his family for a week. Not that that would prevent Jim going out looking for work tomorrow! "I ain't lazy, Doc!"

That job finished, Henry noticed the cufuffle. Solomon, the acknowledged leader of this community, was engaged in a fierce argument with a young woman. A rather extraordinary young woman. She was tall, lovely and black, dressed in odd clothing -a leather jacket and blue cotton trousers. She was making her point with both passion and authority, in the accents of an educated Englishwoman.

"You don't understand!" She was saying. "They'll kill you all. You have to leave!"

Solomon shook his head. "We got nowhere else to go, Martha. Once we're driven out, they won't let us back. This is the only home these people have. I need to talk to them, make them see reason, be compassionate."

Henry was making his way over to see if he could help in any way, when another man stepped up beside Martha. Tallish, thin, wearing a long brown overcoat. He had a sharp-featured face and slicked back hair.

"They won't." He said flatly. "Daleks don't listen to reason, and they don't do compassion. They just kill, it's what they were made for!"

"You're saying they aren't human, Doctor?" Solomon asked incredulously.

 _Doctor?_ The man looked completely different – again – but Henry knew him now. He hurried up to Solomon.

"Solomon," he said, "you need to listen to this man. He knows what he's talking about. Hello again, Doctor, remember me?"

The Doctor blinked, then grinned. "Henry Morgan! What are you doing here?"

Henry lifted his doctors' bag. "Just helping out as best I can."

"Good for you!" The Doctor nodded. "This is Martha Jones, she's a doctor as well. No time to talk, though, everyone needs to get out of here. Even you, Henry, unless you fancy a swim!"

But then it was too late, as a line of attackers emerged out of the trees and began firing indiscriminately. Henry had a confused impression of men with the faces of pigs, and weapons that fired bolts of blue light. Then he was running back into the camp, yelling at people to flee, to get into the woods and hide, or make for the bright streets.

A shadow passed over him, he stopped and looked up. The thing looked almost comical for a moment, as it hung in the air above him. An oversized metal pepper-pot, with a telescopic sucker arm, another shorter arm of unknown purpose, and a shaft bearing a lens sticking out of the top. Then the shaft moved, the lens focusing on Henry. There was a deliberateness, an _intentionality_ in the action that brought the cold touch of fear with it. Whatever it was, it was clearly intelligent, aware, alive. But there was no part of it that had anything in common with humanity, no face, no true body. It was stripped, functional, all traces of anything human or humanlike it might once have had or been had gone, ripped away by...what?

It considered Henry for a bare moment. Then it spoke – a grating, squawking, mechanical sound – a single word: "Ex-ter-min-ate!" There was a bolt of blue light, a moment of unendurable agony, and then Henry was surfacing in the East River, the lights of New York blurred by the water in his eyes.

 _The English Channel, June 6_ _th_ _, 1944_

Henry felt he had never been in a worse situation. The German shell had come out of nowhere – well, obviously from a German gun, but quite where that had been, he had no idea – and he had surfaced in the sea. Fortunately, there had been a boat nearby. Unfortunately, it had been just that, a boat. No crew, no sails, no oars, no engine, but at least no leaks. Any evidence as to what ship the boat might have belonged to had long been scoured away by sun and sea. He was definitely in the Channel – he could hear the guns as the Allied Navy pounded the beaches in an attempt to clear the path for the soldiers – but they could be miles away, and he had no idea of which direction he was headed in.

All he could do was hope he would be found. _Or failing that,_ he thought grimly, _wait to die of thirst or exposure, and hope I re-emerge somewhere near land!_

Then he heard the noise. A whirring, groaning, whooshing noise that suddenly came from behind him. He turned to see an object materialising out of thin air. An object he had seen twice before, both times in wholly incongruous situations. A blue London Police telephone box, first seen on the rocky shore of Bedloes Island, over a hundred years ago, last seen nearly thirty years ago in No Mans' Land in France, now hovering a few feet above the waters of the English Channel.

The door opened and a man appeared. Tall, wiry, dressed in a leather jacket, crew-neck sweater and jeans. A strong, almost rugged face, close-cropped hair, jug-handle ears and a wide, slightly manic grin.

"Hello, Henry!" He said. "How did you get here?"

"German shell, on the beaches over there." Henry waved a hand in the general direction of the naval bombardment. "How did you find me?"

"I didn't." The Doctor told him. "Well, anyway, I wasn't looking for you. But now you're here, you can give us a hand!"

He leaned out, extending a sinewy arm, and hauled Henry, apparently effortlessly, into the TARDIS. Henry had been here twice before, so wasn't bothered by the discrepancy between the ships' internal and external dimensions. He did note, though, that the interior had changed again, as if the TARDIS was somehow in synch with the Doctor, changing its appearance to match his.

Near the door stood some kind of device. As tall as a man, it consisted of an elaborate framework of silvery metal supporting a transparent sphere filled with an unpleasant-looking red vapour. Next to it stood another man. Tall, well-built, in military uniform, he was darkly handsome, radiated charisma, and looked at Henry in way that was at once flattering and slightly disconcerting.

"Well, _hello!"_ He said. "I'm Jack."

"Of course you are." Henry replied, not knowing quite what else to say. "I'm Henry, Henry Morgan."

"The flirting can wait." The Doctor said briskly. "That means you, Jack! Give us a hand with this, Henry."

"What is it?" Henry asked.

"It's alien and it's dangerous." The Doctor told him. "We have to get it to the bottom of the Channel."

"And what happens then?" Henry persisted.

"It'll still be alien, but it won't be dangerous anymore." The Doctor replied. "No salt water where this came from. The sea-water will slowly dissolve the casing and render the gas inside inert. Come on!"

Jack literally tore his eyes from Henry as they began to move the object. Henry gave a mental shrug. He had long ago stopped judging people on their tastes, at least as far as sex was concerned – he still had views when it came to music, clothes and wine, of course - the important things.

The alien device was brutally heavy, but between the three of them, they managed to get it to the doorway and tip it out into the sea, where it sank with no fuss at all.

"Done!" Said the Doctor, as the door closed.

"Good!" This was another voice, a woman's voice – or rather a girls'.

Henry spun round, covering what he had to with his hands, to face a small, blonde, very pretty girl – certainly no more than twenty. She grinned at him and spoke again in a Cockney accent.

"Don't worry, Henry, I've seen a bloke before, but I thought you'd want this."

She handed him a tartan dressing gown – one he remembered wearing before in the TARDIS.

"Awww!" Jack said quietly.

"Shut up, you!" She told him.

 _Totters' Lane, London, 1963_

Henry had visited many cities in his time, and they all had a different feel. New York, his current home, for instance, was brash, self-confident and loud, even at the dead of night. London was equally self-confident, but in a different way – a way that said to other cities "I was here when you were a village, and I'll still be here when you are a forgotten ruin."

He'd had some trepidation in coming back here, England was full of memories, and so many of them painful. But his new profession – forensic pathologist – was a growing and changing one, and he needed to keep up. A conference of specialists in London, led by his boss, Milton Helpern, and the respected Home Office Pathologist, Professor Keith Simpson, was an event not to be missed.

Of course, once here, he'd been unable to resist the temptation to visit some old haunts. He'd done so, only to find many of them changed beyond recognition -the Blitz had seen to that, he supposed. Totters' Lane, however, was still narrow, still hidden away, and the old Junkyard was still there. As he approached it, however, it became clear that something was badly wrong.

A sudden outburst of yells was followed by a fusillade of shots. Then a sound Henry had heard only once before, but would never forget. A harsh, electronic voice uttering one word: "Ex-ter-min-ate!" For a moment, Henry was torn between a desire to see, and an urge to flee, then there was a shattering explosion, and something flew over the Junkyards' wall to land at his feet. Instinctively, he bent to pick it up.

The metal was warm, but rapidly cooling. The thing was perhaps eighteen inches long, a metal shaft adorned with a series of discs, and at the end, a globe containing a lens. It wasn't quite the same as the last one he had seen, but was unmistakably the eye of one of the metal creatures Henry had seen in New York in 1930. What had it been called? A Dalek!

"Collecting souvenirs, Henry?" Henry looked up. The face was sharp, with a naturally wry expression, but the eyes were unchanged.

"I rather think not, Doctor." He replied. "The memories are all too vivid, I'm afraid!"

"You've met Daleks before?" The Doctor peered at Henry intently. "I don't recall..."

"You wouldn't." Henry told him hurriedly, realising what had happened. "Just take it on trust, for now, please!"

"Ah!" The Doctor obviously understood. He took the eye-stalk from Henry and advised. "This is going to get dangerous, Henry. I suggest you make yourself scarce!

"Ace! C'mon, we have to search the school. That was the wrong sort of Dalek!"

 _Morgan Country Home, England, 1972_

"There's really not much left of the house I was born in." Henry was telling Abigail in a quiet corner. "Which is understandable, I suppose. I was the last of my family, and I never lived here -sold the place after Father died – and others moved in. Then, of course, the National Trust took it over, and now they've put in the slavery exhibition. Not surprising, given my familys' association with the trade, but still..."

"So you're disappointed?" Abigail asked. Henry shook his head.

"Not really. It's like when I went back to London a few years ago. The changes actually make it easier to lay old ghosts, I think. Someone's coming."

The couple who walked into the room were not, Henry realised, average tourists. The man was tall and athletic-looking, despite his grey hair and the lines of experience on his hawkish features. He was dressed in the style of an Edwardian dandy, with a frilled shirt, velvet jacket and cloak. His companion was a small, slight blonde with a pretty face and clear, intelligent eyes.

"Ah! This more like it!" The man said in a dry, authoritative tone. "This is proper, original, eighteenth-century stuff. Just look at that fireplace, Jo!"

Henry felt a thrill of recognition. With a placating gesture to Abigail, he approached the man.

"My father was particularly proud of that fireplace, Doctor." He said.

The Doctor turned, and his face broke into a wide smile. "Henry Morgan! So this is actually your house? I did wonder."

"I was born here," Henry allowed, "but I sold the place eventually, for a lot of reasons." He beckoned Abigail forward. "Abigail, this is the Doctor. Doctor, my wife Abigail."

The Doctor bowed over Abigails' proferred hand, causing her to blush prettily. "I'm so pleased to meet you, Doctor. Henry's spoken of you often."

"Good things, I hope." The Doctor said. "This is my assistant, Jo Grant. Jo, this is Dr Henry Morgan, an old friend. I might say a _very_ old friend!"

The four continued their tour together, chatting lightly and enjoyably about all kinds of things. At one point, whilst the ladies were absorbed in some matter that intensely interested them both, Henry pulled the Doctor slightly aside.

"I have a message for you." He said.

"From whom?" The Doctor asked.

"From you." Henry said. "If you see what I mean. You said you don't normally approve of spoilers, but I was to tell you that if you find yourself in the Wapping area in the autumn of 1888, keep an eye out for me."

"I see." The Doctor smiled. "I'll certainly keep that in mind, Henry. Now, shall we look at the gardens?"

 _Heathrow Airport, 1982_

It had been a long shot, at best, Henry thought, but he had had to try. Abigail might have wanted to come back 'home', to England. He had been to everywhere that might have held some meaning for her, but there had been no sign, not a hint. Abigail was clever – no doubt she had simply boarded a Greyhound bus or a plane in New York and gone as far as her ticket would take her. Henry would not stop until he found her again.

A shadow fell over him. "Henry? Henry Morgan?"

Henry looked up. The face and body were that of a young man, wearing a long white coat, cricket flannels and sweater, and a panama hat. There was a stick of celery pinned to the lapel of the coat. The face was young, inoffensively handsome and wore an expression of deep concern. But the eyes were unmistakable.

"Doctor?" Henry said.

The Doctor sat down beside him. "You look awful, Henry. Is everything all right?"

Henry shook his head. "My wife, Abigail. She left me, Doctor. She said it was for my own sake, to preserve my secret, but..."

"But you don't want to be without her." The Doctor finished for him.

"No, I don't!" Henry stated. "Doctor, can you? I mean the TARDIS...?"

It was the Doctors' turn to shake his head. "I'm sorry, Henry. The TARDIS...well, she isn't really a machine, you know. She can be a bit...capricious. I can't take the risk of having you end up somewhere you don't want or need to be. I'm sorry."

Henry shrugged. "I understand. I'll just have to keep looking my own way, I suppose."

"Why?" The Doctors' tone was suddenly brutal. "So you can watch her die, Henry?" His tone softened. "When you're like us, Henry, like you and me, then you have to learn to let go. The people we care about, share time with, they burn bright, but fade quickly. We...we just carry on. The hurt never goes away, but neither do those bright, happy memories. Think before you overlay them with dark, sad ones, Henry."

The Doctor left. Henry remained brooding until his flight was called. Maybe the Doctor was right. Maybe, like Peter Pan, he was destined to lose his Wendy, time after time. But still, he needed to find her, to be sure.

 _New York, January 1_ _st_ _2000_

The celebrations had been wild and prolonged, though whether people were ushering in a new century or simply relieved at the non-emergence of the dreaded Y2K Bug, Henry was not at all sure. He was no technophile himself, but did wonder if the new century would continue the pace of change that the last had established.

In search of quiet, he was walking by the East River, enjoying the sensation of doing so with clothes on, when a tall man accosted him. He was dressed in a mismatched but vaguely Victorian outfit, had longish hair and the face of a poet. But once again, Henry recognised those ancient eyes.

"Hello, Henry." Said the Doctor.

"Doctor." Henry said. "I'm glad I've seen you. I wanted to thank you for what you said the last time we spoke, even if I'm doing so in advance."

"You're not." The Doctor told him. "Did you ever...?"

"I stopped looking." Henry replied. "Between you and my son, Abe, I realised that I was just wasting my life. Abigail made her decision, it was her right to do so, and none of mine to interfere."

"That's the way things are." The Doctor allowed. "For the likes of us, anyway.

"Well, Henry, I thought I'd just stop by to wish you a happy new century. I suppose individual years don't mean much to you any more."

"They do seem to go faster all the time." Henry admitted. "Are you in a hurry? There is one place in this God-forsaken city that does serve a decent cup of tea."

"As long as you're buying." The Doctor said. "Time is the one thing I do have plenty of."

 _? 2013_

Henry was aware that he was dreaming, but at least he was dressed. In his best business suit, apparently. The room, or chamber – it was too impressive to be a mere room – was decorated in a style he was wholly unfamiliar with. The walls were covered with patterns of interlocking and concentric circles which seemed to hold a meaning his mind couldn't quite grasp. Among these were stylised statues of grim-looking individuals in elaborate robes and headgear.

"Dr Morgan?" This was a womans' voice, and it dragged Henrys' attention to more immediate matters. This was clearly a court of some kind, the jury apparently made up of the originals of some of the statues. The woman who had spoken was sitting apart, in the position of a judge. She was wearing white and her face was at once stern, strong and kindly.

"Dr Morgan," she said again, "I am the Inquisitor. I realise that this must be confusing for you, but I promise you will come to no harm, and that we will return you home as soon as possible.

"First, though, could you confirm your identity for the Court?"

"Of course, Madame Inquisitor." Henry faced the jury – he was not unaccustomed to giving evidence in court. "I am Dr Henry Morgan, Medical Examiner for the New York Police Department."

"This New York being the original New York, on the planet Earth?" The Inquisitor asked. Henry nodded. Then remembered where he was and said "Yes."

"Very well." The Inquisitor said. "Now, Dr Morgan, do you recognise the prisoner?"

Henry looked over at the dock. The man in it had fair, curly hair, a squarish face and a stocky build. He was wearing a rather unpleasant multi-coloured coat, but Henry still knew him.

"Yes." He replied. "That is the Doctor. Hello, again."

"Hello, Henry." The Doctor replied. "Sorry about this. Madame Inquisitor, I must protest - it isn't right or fair to bring this man here!"

"Your protest is noted, Doctor." The Inquisitor answered. "I also have my doubts, but the Valeyard," she indicated the tall, thin, harsh-faced man in black robes who stood nearby, "insists that his testimony is vital. I will make a decision on the matter when we have heard Dr Morgans' evidence." She turned to Henry again. "I understand that your profession requires you to give evidence in courts on Earth. I imagine you are familiar with the procedure. You will answer the questions put to you by the Valeyard, after which, the Doctor may cross-examine you if he wishes. If I require any clarification, I will question you directly.

"There will be no need to take an oath, we will know if you are lying." She nodded to the Valeyard. "Proceed."

The Valeyard inclined his head, then turned to Henry.

"Dr Morgan, can we begin by you telling the court the current date from your perspective? The year will suffice." He asked.

"That would be the year two thousand and thirteen of the Common Era, also known as _anno domini_." Henry answered, guessing what was to come next.

"Thank you." The Valeyard said. "And in what year, Dr Morgan, were you yourself born?"

"The year seventeen hundred and seventy-nine of the same era." Henry told him.

"Thank you." The Valeyard said again. "Let the Court note that the lifespan of a human being born in their late 18th century seldom exceeded sixty of their years, and more often ended around fifty. Even in their 21st Century, it was rare for them to exceed a hundred of their years.

"Yet you, Dr Morgan, have lived over two hundred years, and yet have the appearance of a man in your prime. How do you explain this?"

"I can't" Henry answered flatly. "It has been the work of my long life to find an answer to my condition, and I am yet to do so."

"Well, I think I can provide that answer for you, Dr Morgan. Do you remember the first time, the original time, that you "died"?" The Valeyard had the air of a cat about to pounce.

"Vividly." Henry said.

"And is it not the case that at that time, the prisoner was present?" This was the pounce? Henry almost laughed.

"No," he replied evenly, "he was not. I was killed by a pistol shot aboard a ship, in mid-Atlantic. I re-emerged close to an island off the shore of America, and it was there, some hours after my 'death' that I encountered the Doctor."

"One moment." The Inquisitor interrupted. "Dr Morgan, I am having difficulty grasping this matter. Could you explain to me how it is that you survived this 'death'?"

"I can explain the process." Henry told her. "I do not 'survive'. Upon the cessation of vital activity, my body vanishes from the location in which I die. Some variable time afterwards, I reappear, fully healed. Always in open water, always naked. The length of time seems to have some relationship with both the severity of my injuries and the distance to open water. There also seems to be some mechanism that places me in a survivable position when I re-emerge."

"I see, thank you." She turned to the Valeyard. "You may continue."

Her intervention had given the Valeyard time to gather himself. Even so, there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice as he said.

"I put it to you, Dr Morgan, that upon each occasion you have ostensibly died, the prisoner has been present, or in some fashion intervened. Is that not so?"

"It is not." Henry replied evenly. "I have encountered the Doctor on eleven separate occasions. Four of those were shortly after a death, and on those occasions he was kind enough to assist me. One of them immediately preceded a death, and I did not see the Doctor afterwards. Another five were simply meetings – on one such occasion we did not even speak. Then there is the present occasion.

"On the other hand, I have suffered more deaths than I like to count, and for most of them the Doctor was nowhere to be seen."

"What exactly is the Valeyard attempting to prove with this witness?" The Inquisitor asked coldly.

The man in black looked more than a little shaken. "It is my contention that the prisoner has somehow interfered with this mans' relationship with time and death, to create an immortal agent to further his own purposes. I suggest that the prisoner has adjusted the witness' memory to remove evidence."

The inquisitor closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them and said. "Analysis of the witness shows no evidence of tampering. Not, at least, by a TimeLord. Records have a great deal to say on the subject of Dr Henry Morgan. On all except a very few occasions, his behaviour has been exemplary – for a human.

"I suggest you leave off questioning this witness, there is no evidence to be found here, at least for your case. Doctor, do you have any questions?"

"Did you have to stop him?" The Doctor asked. "I was enjoying watching the Boneyard digging himself into a hole!

"But yes, I do have a question. Henry, you say you've met me eleven times, but I only remember six times. Did I look different every time?"

"Every time." Henry confirmed. "Except for the eyes – the look in them never changes."

"In that case," the Doctor said, "I put it to the Court that I will be around for at least five more lifetimes. Logically, therefore, it follows that I will be exonerated by this Court. Therefore there is no point in proceeding. Therefore I move that this trial be stopped and the charges dismissed."

"Motion denied." The Inquisitor said flatly. "It lies within the purview and power of this Court to expunge not only all past, but also any future, lives, should the prisoner be found guilty."

The Doctor shrugged. "Oh, well, it was worth a try. It was nice to see you again, Henry, even under these circumstances. No further questions."

"Very well." The Inquisitor turned to Henry. "Dr Morgan, I apologise on behalf of the High Council of Gallifrey for calling you here on what seems to have been a fools' errand. You will be returned home and your memories of this matter removed. Is there anything you wish to say on your own behalf?"

"One thing, if I may." Henry replied. "I would like to keep my memories. The Doctor is an old friend, and by the nature of things, I have very few of those. I would not want to lose even an unpleasant memory. I'm good at keeping secrets."

"Yes, I imagine you are." The Inquisitor smiled. "Very well, so ordered. You may step down, Dr Morgan."

 _Abes' Antiques, New York, 2015_

Detective Jo Martinez had listened as Henry told her everything. Not passively, but actively, reacting to what she heard, asking pertinent, serious questions. She had even showed emotion, tearing up at some points in the narrative, growing white-lipped with anger at others. There was no doubt that she believed every word. Even so, when his tale was ended, he was forced to ask:

"So, do you think I'm insane?"

"I should." She said. "It sure sounds crazy. But Henry, I've known you for over a year now. You know things...not weird things, but ordinary things...that you shouldn't. The kind of historical things that just aren't in books. I'm a detective, Henry. I can tell when somebody is talking about something they've learned, and when it's something they remember because they were there. Too many times, you slip like that.

"At first I thought you were just some history buff who'd taken things a bit too far. But then, it started to get real.

"Then there were all the crazy things you did. Walking into danger like it was nothing, without a gun, or even a vest. Never mind all those arrests for indecent exposure.

"Put all that together with the story you just told me, and it finally all makes sense.

"So, yeah, it sounds crazy, but only if you haven't lived it, or lived with it. That doesn't mean I don't need to process this. It just means I'm not gonna walk out of here and call an ambulance to haul you off to a psych ward."

It was then that they heard something from the shop. Abe, who'd sat silently supportive throughout, gave Henry a quick look.

"I thought you took care of Adam?" He whispered.

"I did." Henry said. "We may be being burgled."

"Damn." Jo said. "I'm supposed to be off duty!"

Henry held up a hand. Voices were coming from the shop.

"You do realise this is breaking and entering?" A womans' voice, young, English.

"We haven't broken anything." This speaker was male, older, with a definite tinge of Scots in the accent. "There are too many of these shops here for us to wait until business hours. It has to be in one of them."

"Can't you just scan for it?" The woman asked.

"Its power is symbolic, not technological." The reply was impatient. "Even the TARDIS can't scan for symbols, Clara!"

At that, Henry laughed, while Abes' eyes widened. Henry flung open the door to the shop. Two figures were caught in the light. A darkly pretty young woman, and a tall, thin man in black. The man looked to be in his sixties, silver-haired, with a gaunt, lined face and formidable eyebrows over those always-familiar eyes.

"Henry Morgan!" He said. "Do you live here, or are you just part of the stock?"

Henry laughed again, then said. "I begin to believe that here is no such thing as coincidence! Jo, Abe, this is the Doctor, and if you think my story's long, wait until you hear his!"


End file.
